y, Mahony could hear the murmur of his wife's
even voice. Polly sat the further end of the verandah talking to Jinny,
who dandled her babe in a rocking-chair that made a light tip-tap as it
went to and fro. Jinny said nothing: she was no doubt sunk in adoration
of her--or rather John's--infant; and Mahony all but dozed off, under
the full, round tones he knew so well.

In his case the saying had once more been verified: to him that hath
shall be given. Whether it was due to the better position of the new
house; or to the fact that easier circumstances gave people more
leisure to think of their ailments; or merely that money attracted
money: whatever the cause, his practice had of late made giant strides.
He was in demand for consultations; sat on several committees; while a
couple of lodges had come his way as good as unsought.

Against this he had one piece of ill-luck to set. At the close of the
summer, when the hot winds were in blast, he had gone down under the
worst attack of dysentery he had had since the early days. He really
thought this time all was over with him. For six weeks, in spite of the
tenderest nursing, he had lain prostrate, and as soon as he could bear
the journey had to prescribe himself a change to the seaside. The
bracing air of Queenscliff soon picked him up; he had, thank God, a
marvellous faculty of recuperation: while others were still not done
pitying him, he was himself again, and well enough to take the daily
plunge in the Sea that was one of his dearest pleasures.--To feel the
warm, stinging fluid lap him round, after all these drewthy years of
dust and heat! He could not have enough of it, and stayed so long in
the water that his wife, sitting at a decent distance from the Bathing
Enclosure, grew anxious, and agitated her little white parasol.

"There's nothing to equal it, Mary, this side Heaven!" he declared as
he rejoined her, his towel about his neck. "I wish I could persuade you
to try a dip, my dear."

But Mary preferred to sit quietly on the beach. "The dressing and
undressing is such a trouble," said she. As it was, one of her
elastic-sides was full of sand.

Yes, Polly was Mary now, and had been, since the day Ned turned up
again on Ballarat, accompanied by a wife and child. Mary was in
Melbourne at the time, at John's nuptials; Mahony had opened the door
himself to Ned's knock; and there, in a spring-cart, sat the frowsy,
red-haired woman who was come to steal his wife's n